For the Best
by Gale
Summary: Another Magneto and Pietro story. After Wanda is institutionalized, Magneto must cope with a resentful Young Pietro. Revision and Repost. Added Scenes and insight and whatnot. (Read and Review Please)


X-men: Evolution

For the Best

*Written By Gale* 

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. This takes place just after Mags leaves Wanda in the Institution, as seen during "Hex-Factor." This fic may be referred to in my other evofics, but as of right now, it has nothing to do with my other series. 

* * * *

Erik Lehnsherr gave his platinum-haired son a sideways glance as he steered the car around the corner. Honestly he found the contraptions pointless, but using one was necessary to keep up appearances while he lived as closely to humans as he did at the time. "Put on your seatbelt, Pietro," he said indifferently. Soon the reflection of the lit windows in the New York State Sanitarium vanished from the rear-view mirror. His ears still rang with the haunting cries of his son's twin sister, Wanda, as the orderlies dragged her kicking and screaming into the accursed place. It took him only a moment to recover from the pang of regret that shot up inside of his chest. He'd done what he had to do, and that was that. 

Pietro failed to acknowledge his presence as he toyed with the laces on his pea-green hoodie in a tentative manner. On a normal day, the child was prone to turn next to un-controllable when in the car. On days like that, he couldn't sit still in his seat, had to stand up on his knees to peer out the window, asking a million questions about everything they passed. 

_"Where are we going, Daddy?"_

"Wow, Daddy, lookit that car!"

"Can we go to that other store, Daddy? I don't like the people at this one. They smell_ funny."_

"Daddy, Wanda's poking_ me!"_

"Golly, Daddy, can we get a dog like that one over there?"

It'd taken some getting used to. Pietro and Wanda were not his first children, only the first in a very, very long time that he'd the purpose to associate with. In most cases, it got on his nerves, as he hated cars anyway. And now that there was nothing, he almost missed it, wanted to hear _something _to make all this feel a little less disturbing. In the least, it might help him forget he'd just had his youngest daughter locked away because he couldn't deal with her. 

Pietro's usually bright and vivacious blue eyes were hazed, empty as he stared down at his own fingers miserably, and his expressive little mouth was curled into a full pout. 

It was times like these that Erik really missed his wife, simply because if she hadn't died, he wouldn't have become so estranged to his children in the first place. He could reach over and pat his boy on the shoulder and tell him things would be all right. Maybe if Magda were still there, then he could be sad, too. Perhaps Pietro's twin sister wouldn't have had to be put away at all. It _was _her death, after all, that'd triggered the manifestation of the girl's powers in the first place. 

Erik sensed the sting of salt around his eyes and fought to control it. A few insistant blinks of his lashes, and it was gone. He sighed as the car slowed to a halt at an intersection. "Pietro, be a good boy and put your seatbelt on." He heard no movement coming from the passenger side of the car, and since the red light ahead of him allowed him time enough to look, he did. 

As nine-year-old boys were prone to do, Pietro's face was now red with strain as he bit down on his lip, eyes sparkling with tears. His little hands were clenched into fists in his lap as he faught his own adolescent emotions. It wasn't right for big boys to cry, after all. God knew that Daddy didn't. 

He'd known the children for less than a year, and Pietro was the only one that called him Daddy. He was the only one that really took to him. Perhaps, at such a young age, it was an easier concept for him to grasp than if he were older. This man appears in their home, who Mama invited to come stay with them. And suddenly he's their father. He's Daddy. Someone Pietro didn't _have _for the first eight years of his life. Wanda never much liked him at all. So it was never "Daddy" or even "Papa," what Anya once called him. Just a begrudging "father."

Wanda's face reappeared in Erik's mind again, unbidden, and he shook his head to clear it. He'd done what he had to do. She was a danger to herself and to others around her, whether she understood it or not. 

Rather than ask him again, Erik used his gift to will the belt into place. He wouldn't hold this pointed silence against him right now; the boy had a right to be upset. He couldn't comprehend what was going on yet. All he knew was that he couldn't see Wanda, his sister and best friend, anymore. Daddy brought them to some awful place for bad people, and he allowed men in white coats to carry her away screaming and begging for him not to leave her alone, all without so much as frowning or saying goodbye. Since Erik did not make any attempt for him or even poor confused Wanda to see anything else, he could not blame him for being so unresponsive. Erik knew, however, that things would only get worse as time went by. 

"We'll be home in a while," he murmured, voice cracking slightly as the light turned green and the car accellerated at the bidding of his heel. The word "home" didn't feel quite right on the tip of his tongue, perhaps because it wasn't _his _home. He left the confines of his manor, along with _all _his work, in Germany as soon as Magda got in touch with him; he didn't know why, either. She'd already run out on him twice and remained hidden; the first time just after Anya died -- countless years ago, and the last time came less than a year after they reconciled. She ran away just as soon as she discovered she was pregnant again. Yet he kept coming back when she called for him when he really should have just given up on her before the habit started. He shook his head again. "Okay, Pietro?"

Pietro didn't even look at him. Not a word, not a sound.

* * * *

It wasn't new to have to drag Pietro out of bed in the morning. Like most all boys his age, it was nearly impossible to be conscious before ten o'clock. The only exception to the rule was Saturday, when morning cartoons air, in which case the household wake-up call shifted to five a.m. It certainly wasn't unusual to have to rouse only him, so the situation didn't bother Erik in the least. Wanda usually awakened by herself, and had she been present, the den would be alight and the television would be quietly displaying _Sailor Moon, _which she watched every morning. But she wasn't there, so the living room was disturbingly dark and silent, and that didn't sit so well with Erik. He turned his eye down the expanse of the dim hallway, listening for movement, then quite patiently flipped the lights on. That was better.

"Pietro," he called down the corridor.

A rustle of bedsheets and a mumble.

"Come on, Pietro. You're going to be late for school." He strode to the right entrance and eased the door open. As light from the hall flooded inside, he smiled as Pietro's face puckered unhappily. Erik moved further inward and folded back the boy's _Lion King _comforter and sheets. "_Now, _Pietro."

His son made a frustrated noise and attempted to bury himself again. Erik caught him about the middle and lifted him out of bed. It'd become a ritual of theirs over time, so Pietro didn't struggle as much as he could have. Instead, he whimpered and curled himself into the crook of Daddy's arm and attempted to doze off again. 

Erik paused in the kitchen to look at him. In the time since his mother died, Pietro had grown very little. He was thin, and what bit of baby fat he _did _possess only managed to make him look effeminate. His hair was barely dark enough to pass for blond as it was, and like his father, it would turn stark white before he turned twenty. Erik swelled with pride as he imagined how handsome he'd look when he came of age. 

The boy stirred and finally opened his blue eyes. The way they were so finely shaped and oversized made him resemble a kitten. Father watched son, son watched father, and rather than the expected "What's for breakfast?" he got nothing at all. Pietro, in a very basic manner, began to wriggle about until finally he set him on his feet.

The platinum child straightened his flannel bug pajamas as he made his way over to the dinner table and climbed into a chair. Erik frowned and set to fixing him a bowl of cereal, which he blankly stared at once it was given to him. He'd lifted his spoon and set to poking it disinterestedly when his father spoke again.

"Eat up, Pietro," he murmured, finding it suddenly difficult to make eye contact with him. "You need to hurry, or...." He broke off and watched expressionlessly while Pietro slid out of his chair and hurried into the den. 

He followed and stopped in the doorway. Pietro stood in the center of the now illuminated room, turning about as though he were searching for something. Erik's eyes widened with realization, and he shook his head bitterly. 

"She's not here, son."

Yet he still kept looking. 

* * * *

Pietro's denial of the situation only made Erik's attempts to put it behind him even worse. A morning alone was in order, and he needed the extra few hours to unwind before he had to call an old friend about seeing to the situation at hand. Forgetting was impossible by just sitting around, he realized, as everywhere he looked bore something that reminded him of Wanda: one of her dolls, a shoe,a hairtie, a photo. Something unseen obviously had objections to his putting her out of his mind. So deciding, he dismissed the children's nanny, Marya, and attempted to do most of the household chores himself, as a way of getting his mind off things. One way or another, noon finally came about, and he took a break to make a phone call. 

Like always, it took a minute or so before someone picked up the line, but late was better than never. "Hello, Magnus," the man on the other line greeted in faint surprise.

"Charles, it's been a while." 

A beat. "What's wrong?" They never seemed to speak anymore, civilly anyway, unless there were troubles, after all. 

He rubbed the back of his neck to dispell an ache. "You remember what I told you about Wanda?"

_Terrible tantrums in public. She loses her mind completely, turns posessed, uncontrollable...._

"Yes." Charles's voice turned deeper, more serious. "I'm assuming that you've finally done it, then?"

He nodded, although he knew Charles couldn't see him. "That's right."

"How did it go?"

"Not so good, but listen, Charles. There's a favor I need to ask of you." His fingers toyed with the rubber-encased phone cord as he seated himself at his desk. "I want to see to it that Wanda has the best of care, and I _know_ you don't do this sort of thing anymore, but...."

"Certainly Erik." He sounded almost matter-of-fact, "I'll handle her counseling if that's what you want."

All the air in his lungs exploded outward in a grateful sigh. "Thank you, Charles. You have no idea how important this is to me." Another notion dawned upon him and he lowered his voice, "Do you think you can reach her?"

"I think I can. Don't worry, Old Friend. You were right by calling me. I know things have been hard on you --"

"Yes," he broke in. "Yes, you're right." 

"Magnus...?"

Losing Magda was one thing he was unprepared for; he never got over the fact that he'd driven her away, but taking on two children he _never _once met was supposed to be a chance to make up for it. But Wanda never accepted him, and Pietro had still been slightly iffy early on. That experience alone left him feeling inadequate, unfit to be a father, but he didn't have much of a choice, and neither did they. 

_"Magnus? _Are you all right?"

His head shot up as he snapped out of his reverie. "S-sorry, Charles," he said. "I haven't really been myself since last night. Pietro's not taking it well, you see."

"He's angry with you." It wasn't a question.

"He doesn't understand why it's happening."

"Well, have you tried explaining it to him?"

He frowned. "No."

"Well, there's your first mistake. *_Tell* _him."

"Charles...."

"_Magnus,_" ground the other man.

He trailed off and listened.

"Whatever problems you're having that prevent you from talking to him about it are obsolete. This is your _family _we're talking about --"

"When can I expect you?" 

A frustrated sigh. "Tonight."

"Thank you, Charles. See you soon."

* * * *

The sound of the screen door snapping shut, then the actual door behind it, made Erik look up from what he was doing. There was no routine, "Daddy, we're hooooome!" that always rang through the house when that happened. Of course, now there was no _we_, but he'd hoped for at least an "I'm back," but no. After Pietro refused to speak to him at breakfast that morning, it'd been foolhardy to think that he would do so right now. 

He heard the sound of things dropping onto the floor, more than likely being Pietro's jacket, bookbag, and whatever else that he always shed once he got into the house. He would come out into the den later and see a trail of the boy's things leading into the kitchen where he would be trying his hardest to reach the cookie jar on the counter. 

But Erik paid close attention to the footsteps that followed, dulled against the hardwood floors by the rubber soles of tennis shoes, and they came to a sudden and very deliberate stop behind him. He dropped the last bundle of clothing into the cardboard box in front of him and turned his head. 

Pietro stared at him sullenly, hands drooping at his sides like dead weight. If this were a normal day, regular circumstances, he would have giggled, "Whatcha doin in our room, Daddy? Didn't we clean it up good yesterday?" But this wasn't a normal day, or regular circumstances. There was no more "our room," only Pietro's room, seeing as how Erik had just finished packing all of Wanda's belongings away to go into storage. 

Eyes always on his son's, he carefully groped for the sides of the box and slid it around in front of him so he could close it. 

When the sad-faced little boy spoke to him, it was barely above a whisper, and for a second he was sure it'd been his imagination. "Those're Wanda's things."

He nodded. "Yes, Pietro, I know," he said softly, averting his gaze as he lifted the box and got to his feet. The floor stung dully against his knees as he rose off of them. "You're going to have a room to yourself from now on."

Erik strode forward and paused, waiting for the three-foot shorter child to step out of the way so he could exit. Pietro tilted his head up at him, "Why? Is Wanda moving into her own room?"

He stiffened at that. It wasn't that his son didn't know; he could sense how wizened his tone was. This wasn't just denial; it was some unspoken demand to make things like they were. He shook his head. "_No_, Pietro," he responded. He shifted the box's weight onto one arm and carefully nudged him out of the way. 

Ever insistant, "Then where are you taking Wanda's stuff? It belongs in our room." 

He winced but didn't stop what he was doing; he simply continued on down the hallway toward the stairs to the cellar. "Not anymore," he stated quietly, more to himself than anyone else. He didn't want this right now, had to finish this task, get everything into the basement where he could forget about it. It didn't bother him so much when there was nothing to remind him of it. Her face might go away then. He wouldn't hear her screaming whenever he shut his eyes. 

The rushed sound of little feet against the floor behind him, slowly drawing away. He glanced back, but Pietro was already gone from his line of vision by then. Determined, he shrugged it off and reached out to open the door to the stairway.

The sound of something heavy, glass, and probably expensive shattering on the floor issued from the kitchen. Erik dropped the box and bolted to the source, shields up and tensed, a natural reaction of his to danger, although even before he got there, he knew there was no need. He skid to a halt in the doorway and stood facing a mess of crystalline fragments on the floor. His eye moved to his son, who watched him from the other side of the disaster, fists clenched much like they had been the night before, narrowed cerulean eyes hammering into his soul like nails into a board. He was panting hard, once again fighting back angry tears. 

There was no mystery as to how this happened; not only had his son pushed every last piece of drying dishes off the counter onto the floor, but he'd also toppled over what had been his mother's favorite crystal vase. Although _that _particular indescretion hit him at a more personal level, Erik patiently ignored it. "Are you all right, Pietro?"

Countenence never once flickering from its current state, the boy stepped to the side and with one hand yanked a drawer out of its respective place and dashed it, along with its contents, onto the ground to join everything else he'd just demolished. Erik's pulse jumped for an instant, but he didn't move to stop him, merely watched. 

His lack of reaction only seemed to provoke the child further, for the next item he lifted ended up flying through the window on the other end of the room. Erik winced and drew in a long breath from his nose, but did nothing more than softly utter his son's name. 

Pietro's scowl took on a more hateful level than before, and he crouched down next to the pile of mayhem he'd sent to his feet and grabbed up a steak knife. He and Wanda were both taught what types of silverware they were allowed to use: spoons, forks, and butter knives. Never the ginsu's, because those were for grown-ups. Erik came to learn this rule as well as many others that Magda and Marya set for them. Yet here he was holding one, fingers wound so tightly around the handle that the bones of his knuckles could be seen through his already pale skin. He hurried over the mess with hardly a stumble, holding the knife as though it were a weapon, all the time his eyes on Daddy's, droplets of moisture still standing on his face. 

So hateful, and yet, Erik realized with a frown, he could sense a challenge in his eyes. 

Erik couldn't be sure what he expected him to do, not right away, but he was never one to raise a hand to his children, no matter how bad they were. The only other thing he could think to do was wait, and so deciding, he dropped down onto one knee, shields dropped, so that he was at better level with the child. He watched him intently, waiting to see if this frenzy Pietro had gone into would be seen through to the worst or not. 

The staredown lasted for nearly five minutes. Pietro didn't waver in his threat for all that time, and Erik silently waited him out. Would he actually try to stab him with that? After the first moment or so, he started to think it might be possible. What would he do then? He wasn't sure. After the five, he'd been prepared to reach out with his gift and relieve Pietro of his weapon, but the boy was the one to blink first. 

Pietro lowered the knife, sniffling, and demanded in a broken, furious voice, "Why aren't you _mad _at me?!"

Erik Lehnsherr blinked.

This was taken once again as an indifferent response. The ashen-tressed child dropped the blade and threw himself at his father, who drew back only fractionally in surprise, then allowed him to beat his small fists hysterically against his chest. 

"You have to be mad at me!" Pietro screamed, tears he'd been fighting a loosing battle against finally moving freely in great volumes. "I'm _bad!"_

Brow furrowed in depression, Erik gently caught his son's wrists and attempted to hold him still. There was only momentary resistance before the boy collapsed, sobbing, into his arms. He vaguely noted the moisture seeping through the front of his business shirt with a sort of tenderness as the broken child continued to insist upon him.

"Be _mad _at me, Daddy, I'm being _bad!_"

Erik squeezed his eyes shut as he quite effortlessly lifted the small form against him. "No," he soothed. "No, Pietro it's okay. You're not in trouble." 

This earned an afflicted wail from the boy. 

His hand smoothed the cloth on the back of Pietro's sweatshirt before allowing his fingers to trail up into his hair. He turned his head and pressed his nose into the soft mass, inhaling his son's scent tenderly. "Why do you want me to be mad at you, Pietro?"

A half-surpressed sob. Pietro's voice was muffled against his chest. "Wanda was bad! If she has to be bad then I do, too! She's all alone, Daddy; I don't want her to be all alone!"

_By the Eternal...._

Erik's own face twisted with pain as he hugged him closer. "Is that what you think?" he asked him, sounding almost like he couldn't believe it. The boy sat back to look up at him. His face was red and moist. "You think I sent Wanda away because she was misbehaving?"

He sniffed again and nodded, rubbing one eye. "She didn' _mean _to, Daddy!"

He brushed a thumb over one of those damp cheeks. "Pietro," he said. He paused and took a breath; if the right words were as simple to summon as his own power, then he would have been a model father. "Your sister...." he began before swallowing hard and trying again, "your sister's not well."

The look on Pietro's face told him that he didn't understand.

Choosing his words more carefully, now, "You remember how sometimes, Wanda would get upset and things would start happening?"

_That_, Pietro got. He nodded. 

_Good, _he thought. "Well, you know that it's started to get worse lately, bad enough that she could have hurt herself or someone else. You don't want that to happen, do you?"

"That didn' mean you had to let those people take her away!"

Erik sighed. "That place is where people go so they can get better, Pietro," he explained. "Sometimes when people get sick, they need a little help or they'll stay sick, maybe get sicker."

"So Wanda went to the doctor? Like when I fell off my bike?"

_And cracked his head open and scared the entire household near to death. I _told _Magda he was too young for a ten-speed. _He smiled sourly. "That's right, Pietro." Hesitation gripped him, before he permitted impulse to take over, and he bent to kiss his forehead. It occurred to him that he'd never done that. "Wanda's just going to be seeing the doctor for a longer period of time. Because she can't get better if she doesn't stay there a while."

A hopeful look in his eyes, "Can I go see her?"

It made his heart ache worse than it ever had before to answer, "Not anytime soon, Pietro. Not until it's safe, and the doctors are sure no one will get hurt. It's all for the best."

Pietro's face fell. "Is Wanda bad, Daddy?"

"No." The word shot out of his mouth barely an instant following the question. Erik rocked his son gently, comfortingly. "Wanda can't control what's happening. But I have a friend who's going to help her, and hopefully, she'll be all right soon."

"How long?" Pietro whimpered into his shoulder.

Erik rested his chin atop his head. "I don't know, Pietro."

"But she'll be okay?"

"Yes, Pietro." He sighed as the boy relaxed in his arms. "Everything's going to be all right." He blinked his eyes and looked at the mess. He would clean it up later; right now they both needed a rest. "Let's get you cleaned up...."


End file.
